closer to her side, 'what's the devil?'

'Oh, I don't know,' cried Meg; 'only he's dreadfully, dreadfully
wicked.'

'As wicked as father is when he's drunk?' asked Robin.

'Oh, a hundred million times wickeder,' answered Meg eagerly. 'Father
doesn't get drunk often; and you mustn't be a naughty boy and talk
about it.'

It was already a point of honour with little Meg to throw a cloak over
her father's faults; and she spoke so earnestly that Robin was strongly
impressed by it. He asked no more questions for some time.

'Meg,' he said at last, 'does the devil ever come here?'

'I don't think he does,' answered Meg, with a shrewd shake of her small
head; 'I never see him, never. Folks are bad enough without him, I
guess. No, no; you needn't be frightened of seeing him, Robbie.'

'I wish there wasn't any devil,' said Robin.

'I wish everybody in London was good,' said Meg.

They sat a while longer on the window-sill, watching the sparrows, all
fluffy and black, fluttering and chattering upon the house-tops, and
the night fog rising from the unseen river, and hiding the tall masts,
which towered above the buildings. It was dark already in the court
below; and here and there a candle had been lit and placed in a window,
casting a faint twinkle of light upon the gloom. The baby stirred, and
cried a little; and Meg lifted Robin down from his dangerous seat, and
put two or three small bits of coal upon the fire, to boil up the
kettle for their tea. She had done it often before, at the bidding of
her mother; but it seemed different now. Mother's voice was silent,
and Meg had to think of everything herself. Soon after tea was over
she undressed Robin and the baby, who soon fell asleep again; and when
all her work was over, and the fire put out, little Meg crept in beside
them on the scanty mattress, with her face turned towards the bed, that
she might see the angels if they came to carry her mother away. But
before long her eyelids drooped over her drowsy eyes, and, with her arm
stretched lightly across both her children, she slept soundly till
daybreak.

No angels had come in the night; but early in the morning a
neighbouring undertaker, with two other men, and Mr Grigg, the
landlord, who lived on the ground-floor, carried away the light burden
of the coffin which contained Meg's mother. She waited until all were
gone, and then she locked the door carefully, and with baby in her
arms, and Robin holding by